this, more than a month must have elapsed, and the writer may no longer be in either.  You say you hope I may return a new being; and I have no doubt my health will be benefited, and my spirits revived by change of external objects; but oh, how dreary it all is now!  You bid me cheer my father when my mother shall have left us, without knowing that she is already gone.  I make every exertion that duty and affection can prompt; but, you know, it is my nature rather to absorb the sorrow of others than to assist them in throwing it off; and when one’s own heart is all but frozen, one knows not where to find warmth to impart to those who are shivering with misery beside one....  I have left myself scarcely any room to tell you of my present life.  I work very hard, rehearsing every morning and acting every night, and spending the intervening time in long farewell rides round this most beautiful and beloved Edinburgh.  Mr. Combe says I am wearing myself out, body and mind; but I am already looking better, and less thin, than when I left London; and besides, I shall presently have a longer rest—­holiday I cannot call it—­on board ship than I have had for the last three years.  We acted “Francis I.” here last night, for the first time; and I am sure that, mingled with the applause, I heard very distinct hissing; whether addressed to the acting, which was some of it execrable, or to the play itself, which I think quite deserving of such a demonstration, I know not....  You know my opinion of the piece; and as, with the exception of the two parts of De Bourbon and the Friar, and not excepting my own, it really was vilely acted, hissing did not appear to me an unnatural proceeding, though perhaps, under the circumstances, not altogether a courteous one on the part of the modern Athenians.  I tell you this, because what else have I to tell you, but that I am your ever affectionate

F. A. K.

Tuesday, 10th.—­At half-past twelve rode out with Liston and his daughter, Mr. Murray, and Allen (since Sir William, the celebrated artist, friend, and painter, of Walter Scott and his family)....  In the evening, at the theater, the house was very full, and I acted very well, though I was so tired that I could hardly stand, and every bone in my body ached with my hard morning’s ride.  While I was sitting in the greenroom, Mr. Wilson came in, and it warmed my heart to see a Covent Garden face.  He tells me Laporte is giving concerts in the poor old playhouse:  well, good luck attend him, poor man (though I know it won’t, for “there’s nae luck about that house, there’s nae luck at a’").  Walter Scott has reached Edinburgh, and starts for Abbotsford to-morrow:  I am glad he has come back to die in his own country, in his own home, surrounded by the familiar objects his eyes have loved to look upon, and by the hearts of his countrymen, and the prayers, the blessings, the gratitude, and the love they owe him.  All Europe will mourn his death; and for years